


Look at us we're beautiful

by zelda_zee



Category: American Idol RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam, Misha, two hits of Ecstasy, and Burning Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look at us we're beautiful

Misha hasn’t been to Burning Man in a few years, but he’s feeling the weight of conformity and expectation more and more lately and that scares him, so he throws a few clothes into a bag, fills the trunk with gallon jugs of water and drives out to the desert to lose himself for a week in the temporary city of freaks and prophets and poets and lunatics who swelter and sizzle under the Nevada sun every year. As soon as he sees the spires and tents of Black Rock City rising up over the playa he feels like he can breathe a little easier, see a little more clearly.

He hasn’t come with anyone, but that doesn’t matter at Burning Man. Everyone knows everyone, whether you’ve met before or not.

His skin darkens on the first day, and he sheds most of his clothes along with his worries and his attachment to ordinary life, letting the spirit of the place settle inside him and push out all the nonsense. Sometime around midnight on the second day, as he’s dancing under the starlit sky to a Celtic-Bhangra fusion band, he thinks maybe he’s close to attaining the kind of certitude and immediacy that he needs to find before it's over. On the third day, he decides to cut to the chase, buckles his water bottle to his belt and goes wandering, forgets where he pitched his tent somewhere around the time the second tab of ecstasy kicks in.

There’s music and drumming and dancing and everyone - _everyone_ \- is so fucking beautiful it makes him cry.

“Hey, baby,” someone says and Misha turns and it’s this kid, just a baby himself, blue eyes that are sharp and soft and ringed with smoky eyeliner, slanting black brows and dark hair sticking up all over the place, glittering in the midday sun. “It’s okay, pretty,” the boy says. “Don’t cry.” He wipes a tear off Misha’s cheek with his thumb, smiles when Misha takes his hand and brings it to his mouth so he can taste the salt of his tear mixed with the salt of the boy’s skin.

“It’s all so beautiful,” Misha whispers. His lips feel numb, his tongue thick. He thinks maybe he’s slurring his words. He touches the boy’s face, wanting to count his freckles, fingers tracing the lines of paint that curl around his eye and down his neck, turning into graceful swirls of blue and purple and gold over his chest and back, starbursts painted around his nipples and his navel. Skin-tight purple spandex leggings and platform biker boots and _holy fuck_ , the kid doesn’t even look human. He's a nymph, a faun, something fey and dangerous and otherworldly. He shimmers, pulsing and jittering in the light.

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” Misha says hoarsely. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He leans in and kisses the boy on the cheek. Misha's eyelids slide closed as the sensation overwhelms him, lips tingling from the peachy smooth skin, the burr of stubble that burns like spice.

The boy laughs, delighted, slips an arm around Misha’s back and holds him up as he sways, moving with the turning of the earth.

“You’re flyin’, aren’t you?” The boy's voice is chocolate and bronze, the scent of woodsmoke on a fall evening. Misha tastes it, breathes it in.

He opens his eyes and the boy’s right there, so close, their faces only inches apart. He’s not as young as Misha first thought, in fact maybe just a few years younger than he is himself. He's even more gorgeous up close and strong and solid, and Misha leans into him helplessly. “Oh yeah,” the boy says, smiling down into his face and Misha’s not short by any means, but this kid would have a couple of inches on him, even without the platforms he's wearing. “Yeah, you’re flyin’ _high_. You feelin’ good, baby?”

“Fly-ing,” Misha sings, and then he laughs, because yeah. So high, gonna kiss the sky.

“Who’s taking care of you?” the boy asks.

“Mmmm,” Misha sighs, swaying into the shadow the boy casts. “You are, now.” He looks around at the kaleidoscope of color and motion surrounding them. He has no idea where he is, but he doesn’t care. Nothing bad can happen to him here. “Everybody is,” he says, his smile feeling like it’s taking up all the room on his face. “We’re all taking care of each other.”

“Yeah, we are, but who’re you here with? Is there somebody babysitting while you trip your brains out?”

There’s just me here,” Misha says, butting his head against the boy’s shoulder. “Me, me, me.”

A hand is under his chin, lifting his head. Misha blinks, trying to focus. “Look at us we’re beautiful,” he sings, “all the people, push and pull.”

“Shit,” the boy says fondly, something warm in his eyes that makes Misha want to fall into them. “Look at you. You are one fucking gorgeous, fucked-up mess, honey.”

“Honey pie,” Misha sings, “you are making me crazy.”

The boy stares at him for a long moment, then seems to come to a decision. “I’m gonna look after you,” the boy says. “You gonna be okay with that?” and Misha grins because he likes the idea that this pretty, painted boy wants to look after him even though he is perfectly capable of looking after himself.

Misha goes with him, lets his hand stay in the boy’s sweaty grasp as he’s tugged through cities and carnivals and kasbahs and fortresses, for miles and miles, across the country, around the world. They stop and talk to people the boy knows and Misha is happy to stand with his hand in the boy's sweaty clasp, let it all roll over him, let the sun soak through him, the hot wind buoy him up. Misha’s dizzy and faint and his skin is buzzing and the world is pulsing around him in crazy flashes of color and noise and none of it makes sense but it’s precious and perfect and he thinks he’s laughing or crying and he wants to kiss the boy again.

Suddenly it’s dim and quieter and Misha looks around, trying to understand. There’s just the boy and him and Misha reaches out curiously and touches the wall and it’s smooth and brown, but it’s not wood. There’s carpet and a chair and a mattress with messy covers and a plaid blanket. The boy turns on a fan and the air that blows over them is hot, but it still feels good on Misha’s sweaty skin.

When the world slows its spinning enough for Misha to be able to speak, he asks, “Where are we?”

“My van.”

“Oh.” Now that he’s been told, Misha can see that he’s in a camper, an old VW like his mom used to have, and he's sitting on that mattress on the floor. The door’s open wide, as are all the windows but there’s not a breeze to cool them. It’s hot everywhere though, and the shade is nice.

“Are we staying here?” Misha asks. 

“For a little bit,” the boy says. “Just to get you hydrated and rest for a minute.”

“Okay,” Misha says. He fingers the bedding that he’s sitting on. It’s a flannel sleeping bag, too warm, but it’s soft against his bare legs and his hands and he’s suddenly possessed by the need to lay down, and indeed when he does, he finds it’s the most comfortable thing he’s ever laid on.

“I’m Adam.” The boy – Adam – shoots him a smile over his shoulder as he opens an ice chest.

“I’m Eve,” Misha says, and Adam snorts, but he doesn’t ask what Misha’s real name is, because that’s how it is here. Reality is only what you create in the moment.

“Okay, Eve,” he says. “Drink this.” He hands Misha a cold bottle of water and Misha realizes suddenly how thirsty he is. His hand goes to his belt, but it’s gone and his water bottle with it, so he struggles up to his elbow and drinks the water Adam gave him.

His shirt’s missing too, he notices, but he’s still got his shorts and sandals, so he kicks those off and wiggles out of his shorts, sighing happily once he’s naked.

Adam’s watching him, the sharpness in his eyes overwhelming the softness and that look makes something spark in Misha’s belly, kindling low. He stretches, watching Adam watch him, letting him see and decide if he wants. Because Misha wants, with a rush of sudden, ravenous clarity as if someone flicked a switch, turned his body on like a light. He wants this beautiful boy with the painted body and the badass boots. He looks like a fucking rock star, an angel, a satyr, something risky, something unpredictable. He looks like he could fuck Misha into the floor, fuck him all the way into next week. He looks like exactly what Misha needs.

“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” Adam says, his eyes lingering on Misha’s body.

“So I’ve been told,” Misha says, a bit breathlessly.

It makes Misha happy to see the glint of appreciation in Adam’s gaze, makes him hot and horny. He touches his cock, just lightly, running his fingers up and down as it stiffens. It’s unbearably good, so sensitive, so hard. He aches for more, his whole body aches so sweetly. He feels free and needy and wanton and he spreads his legs, tugs on his dick, tasting purple in the back of his throat, shocks of red and deep blue against the backs of his eyelids.

“Fuck me,” Misha says, a hoarse and breathy rasp. “God, c’mon Adam, fuck me.” He wants it; he wants it so bad. Doesn’t think he’s every wanted anything so much. A part of him knows it’s the high, but he doesn’t care. He feels alight, afire, every cell singing out desire, sharp enough to hurt.

“Oh no,” Adam says, but there’s a hungry smile on his face, darkness in his eyes that makes Misha shiver. “You’re too high, baby. I can’t fuck you now. You’d never forgive me once you came down.”

Misha moves, plasters himself to Adam’s front, his hands clutching at his hips, his ass, writhing against him, hips hitching against the smooth, slippery fabric of Adam’s pants, rubbing against the hardening cock he can feel digging into his hip. Adam wants him, Misha knows that, there’s no mistaking it and he doesn’t get why Adam’s even hesitating. He feels so good under Misha’s hands, against his body. Misha thinks this is the answer, this is why he came here, to meet this boy, to have this experience, to remember what it’s like to live only for the moment.

“ _Jesus_ , I don’t fucking care,” he pants, mouthing over Adam’s neck, tasting salt. “I just – just – I need this. I _need_ it, please.”

Adam’s breathing fast and he’s looking at Misha like he just wants to devour him, like he’s _prey_. “Okay,” Adam says decisively, and Misha’s stomach lurches, heat twisting through his limbs, pooling insistently in his groin. “Turn around.” Misha does it without a thought, tries to push his ass back against Adam, but there’s a hand on his hip, holding him away, so he tries to go up on all fours, but again Adam keeps him where he is and Misha whimpers, not knowing what Adam wants him to do.

“Not gonna fuck you,” Adam says. He’s right behind Misha, his breath blowing warm in Misha’s ear, cool over the sweat on his neck.

“Please,” Misha whispers, desperate. He clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut. He's shaking and if Adam doesn't do _something_ Misha's going to burst right out of his skin.

“Shhh. It’s okay, sweetheart. Just touch yourself, like you were.” He sighs, as Misha takes his cock in his hand again and begins stroking. “Yeah, like that. That feels good, right?” Misha nods, because it does, so good. It’s not what he wants but maybe it’s enough, with Adam’s voice curling silkily into his ear, and his hand steady on Misha’s hip. He twists to look up at Adam, wanting to see his face as Adam leans up on his elbow so he can watch, his eyes so appreciative, so approving.

“God, you’re pretty,” Adam murmurs and Misha doesn’t know if he’s meant to respond or even to have heard that. “The things I want to do to you. Later, when you’re not fucked up. If you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you,” Misha pants. “Fuck, anything. I’ll let you.”

“Oh, baby,” Adam sighs, brushing Misha’s hair back from his forehead. “You’re making it so hard for me to be a good boy, you know that?”

Misha closes his eyes, tilts his head back into Adam’s hand, moans when Adam’s fingers slide through his hair again and again, petting him. It’s soothing, a slow, calm counterpoint to everything he’s feeling, to the fast, frantic motion of his hand jerking himself off. It grounds him, keeps him from floating away and losing himself in the maelstrom of sensation, the dizziness of the Earth’s rotation, the precariousness of gravity.

Adam touches his face, fingers gentle on his cheekbones, his eyelids, occasionally murmuring something low in his ear, words that make Misha’s toes curl and his cock blurt out sticky gobs of wet. He’s so strung out, pouring sweat, trembling and tense and he can’t come. His cock’s a solid, swollen ache, angry-red and dripping. Every time he gets close to orgasm, it recedes away, a cruel chase that’s got him twisting his dick and groaning in frustration.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s just the X,” Adam reminds him and Misha knows that, he’s been here before, but he’d forgotten somehow. “Here.” Adam pries Misha’s hand of his dick, squirts some lube into it. “Try that.”

It’s better with the slick and Misha groans and whimpers and tries to say thank you but his tongue isn’t working well enough to form words. Adam takes Misha's other hand, squirts out dollop of lube onto it.

“Finger yourself,” he says, and it’s not like it’s an order, but it’s not like it isn’t either. Misha doesn’t think, can’t think, just does what Adam tells him, breath hitching as he smears lube around his hole before breaching himself with a single wet finger.

“Oh god,” he gasps as he pushes deeper, leaning back hard against Adam. “God, _please_.”

He slides his finger out, comes back in with two and it stretches and it’s good even if it’s not enough, not big enough, not deep enough. Adam wraps an arm around Misha’s waist and it makes his skin sing where they touch, all the air leaving his lungs. Adam’s other hand is on Misha’s forehead holding him still as he whispers filthy things into his ear while Misha jerks himself, bears down on his fingers, wanting deeper, wanting more.

“You’re one hot little motherfucker, you know that?" Adam says, his voice low and intimate. "Jesus, just look at you. You know what I wanna do to you? I wanna suck that pretty cock of yours til you choke me with your come. I wanna see how you look with your mouth all stuffed full of mine, yeah, fuck, I wanna see that. Lick you open and finger you til you beg for it and fuck you til you scream, make you come all over yourself just from the feel of my cock filling you up.” Misha makes some kind of wild noise, he doesn’t even know what. He’s so far gone there’s no way he can control the sounds he makes. He just knows that it’s loud and greedy and that it makes Adam chuckle darkly in his ear. “You like that idea, huh? You ready to come for me now? You ready to give it up?” Misha pushes back against him, head arching over Adam’s shoulder, every muscle tensed. “Tell me what you’re gonna do. Say it for me.” Misha’s lips tremble, mouth dry, tongue trying to form words. Adam’s hand is on his forehead, holding him firmly, the other one squeezing his hip, his mouth hot and demanding on Misha’s ear. “Say it.”

“Gonna come,” Misha rasps, the words barely intelligible, and somehow saying it makes it true, makes the surge of his orgasm rise fast and inexorable. “Oh _god_ , I’m gonna come. Oh _fuck – fuck_ \-- I’m – fuck –”

He feels every little thing too keenly, the sharpness of the sensations blasting him open; the rushing of his blood and the pounding of his heart, the way his muscles stretch and tense as he arches, the way he tightens around his fingers, the clench of his balls, the feel of his come pulsing up and out of him as he spurts. It's blinding, breathtaking, too intense, too sweet. It wraps his whole body in red-hot bliss, sweeps through him from head to toe, wave after wave, until he's shaking uncontrollably. He can hear himself sobbing, strangled, gasping sounds that are dragged up out of his center; can hear Adam saying something, he doesn’t know what, only knows there are arms around him, holding him together, strong and right as he breaks apart.

“Oh, baby.” Adam’s breath fans out over the side of Misha’s neck. “That’s right. That’s what you need. You’re okay, baby, just let it all go.”

Misha collapses in a boneless heap as his orgasm ebbs, too wrung out to move. His hand is sticky around his dick and he’s unresisting when Adam produces a cold, wet cloth from somewhere and cleans him up, then proceeds to pass it over his chest and shoulders and down his back, leaving a trail of ice blue shocks across Misha's feverish skin. Adam says something, but it’s just a buzz in Misha’s ear, a little bee buzzing, and Misha doesn’t even have the strength to bat it away. He can’t begin to fight as he sinks, happily, into unconsciousness.

It’s dark when Misha opens his eyes. He lies still, wondering where he is. He looks to the side, sees the star-crowded sky whirling above, around and around, stars winking at him cheekily, beckoning for him to join them.

Still high, then, he thinks, though he’s definitely feeling more himself than he has in a while.

Turning his head to the side he sees the lights of Black Rock City – fire, candles, kerosene, neon, electric – they flicker and glow as he watches. People move to and fro, shadows in the dark, illuminated, then hidden in shifting chiaroscuro.

A larger, darker shadow inserts itself into Misha’s line of vision.

“Hey,” Adam says. “You’re awake.” He sits in the open door of the van, long, purple-clad legs stretched out, bare feet crossed at the ankles. He hands Misha a water bottle. “How’re you feeling?”

Misha yawns and sits up, the sheet that had been covering him pooling at his hips. He takes a deep swallow from the bottle and clears his throat. “Okay.” His voice sounds like metal on sandpaper, so he takes another drink. “Pretty good.”

“Coming down yet?” Adam asks, lighting up a joint.

“Maybe. Just starting.”

Adam nods and hands the joint to Misha. “This should help cushion the landing.”

Misha takes the joint, inhales, and some of the jittery feeling fades away. “Thanks,” he says, handing it back to Adam. “Thanks for everything. For looking after me. I think maybe I needed some looking after.”

Adam gives him a crooked smile. “You were pretty far gone.”

“Sorry.”

“No.” Adam leans in close, holds the joint up to Misha’s lips for him. “It was awesome, believe me.”

Misha grins, smoke escaping. “It was indeed awesome.” He tentatively touches Adam’s wrist, running light fingertips up his forearm. “You were very restrained.”

“I was on my best behavior,” Adam says, his eyes falling to Misha’s mouth. “It wasn’t easy.” He reaches up, takes Misha’s chin in his hand and rubs his thumb back and forth over Misha’s bottom lip.

Misha’s breathing fast, feeling a little light-headed. “You don’t have to be on your best behavior now,” Misha murmurs.

“Hmm.” Adam’s thumb hooks into Misha’s mouth and he touches it with his tongue, feeling heat coil in his groin. “You’re still high.”

Misha releases Adam’s thumb and licks his lips. “And likely to remain so for the rest of the week,” Misha says. “But I’m not tripping anymore. Anyway, you’re high too.”

“A little.” Adam gets to his knees and crawls closer, leaning up over Misha. “But I guess we’re okay now.” He bears Misha back down onto the bedding. “We better be,” Adam says, lowering his hips to Misha’s, “cuz I don’t think I can be a good boy for a minute longer.”

“Don’t be,” Misha says breathlessly, tugging Adam down on top of him. “I don’t want you to be.”

Adam laughs and groans and kisses him and it’s warm and beautiful and perfect. Misha's high and happy and he feels _right_ in a way he hasn't in a long time. Overhead, the stars wheel in spirals over the playa and the city burns with light and heat and the beat of the drums is the beat of Misha’s heart is the beat of Adam’s pulse beneath his tongue. Misha closes his eyes and gives himself up to it, all and everything.

 


End file.
